


All That Reading Just Can't Be Good For You!

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:51:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Major Kevin Richards had been an avid reader all of his life, though rarely getting the opportunity to indulge as much as he would like anymore.  Well, the war and all; you understand - as he has been known to comment ironically, "most inconvenient!".  Now, with a mild (according to him, anyway, if not the doctor) concussion and a racked-up ankle, he had more than enough time to read, notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances and discomfort involved.  Now, he could only glare at the stack of books on his coffee table, especially the ones sent to him by Garrison and his guys, and decided Casino was probably right.  "All that reading just can't be good for me!"





	All That Reading Just Can't Be Good For You!

Major Kevin Richards was laid up in bed, or 'on couch' as the mood struck him, as a result of a mission that didn't go exactly as planned. The couch was actually more convenient, if less comfortable, since people kept dropping by and he had to keep staggering to the door to let them in. Well, SOMEONE had to open the blasted door, or they'd just keep knocking! Seems various and sundry seemed to think he needed them to check on him, just to be sure he was getting along alright. Well, of course he was! He wasn't a child, after all!

Yes, so he'd stretched the truth somewhat in answering the doctor's wary question, saying that there would, of course, be someone there with him at all times. After all, he reasoned to himself even as he mentally crossed his fingers, Julie MIGHT get back from her visit to their uncles soon, though she had expected to stay for another two weeks at least; of course she would come back immediately IF Kevin bothered to let them know he was laid up and needed her. And she'd certainly want to stay and look after him, if she knew. Even his uncles might show up as well, if he called and reported his injuries. 

Somehow, though, he kept letting that slide, making that phone call, thinking he'd really do better without anyone fussing over him. If he could manage himself behind enemy lines, surely he could manage himself inside his own flat!

Those of his acquaintance at HQ and elsewhere, those who were in the know as to his non-desk duties, were most sympathetic and dropped by, went out of their way to provide him some means of distracting himself from staring at the four walls in his flat. Oh, not many stayed long to visit; they all had a great deal on their plate, and, although polite, the temporary invalid certainly didn't give any indication of wanting anyone to remain and chat. 

Truthfully Richards wasn't all that eager to be a congenial host anyway. He'd never much enjoyed the role, rarely undertaking such, especially having people in his private space, even when he was in the pink of health, and now, suffering the lingering results of that concussion and banged-up ankle, he frankly wasn't up to making even his usual tepid efforts at being a good conversationalist.

Still, the visitors had meant well, he had to admit, and the gifts they'd brought were, well, thoughtful in intent, if not particularly well thought out or expressing any real knowledge of Kevin Richards, the individual, or of the proper treatment of a concussion nor of the inadvisability of adding to the unsteadiness of a man already unstable on his feet.

Two bottles of strong spirits, of a decent if not extraordinary quality awaited his attentions - spirits which he supposedly was not allowed to indulge in until he was well past the effects of that blow to the head. So all he could do was stare at them, sitting over there on the sideboard; he could almost imagining them taunting him with their inaccessibility, both due to his unsteadiness on his feet and the strict doctor's orders he'd been given when he got that worthy's reluctant permission to come home instead of staying in the overcrowded med unit. Well, except for that third bottle - that was from Alex Ainsley, and the sort of brew that team leader drank wasn't the sort to 'taunt' anyone; a seething, rather sinister, threat was more its style. Richards shuddered at the thought, imagining an evil smile on that surely hand-made label on the repurposed bottle.

The candies were also well-intentioned, although nothing that particularly tempted him; sadly none of his visitors knew of his particular weaknesses in that area. Though, with his forced inactivity, perhaps that really was for the best; pralined nuts and nut brittle would be too hard to resist in his weakened and bored condition, and probably extremely difficult to find in the first place. At least that's what he told himself, looking at the two tins of hard candies and the box of inexpensive chocolates on his end table, and the strips of preserved, well, something. The label was faded, so he imagined whatever it was had been preserved quite a while ago; he only hoped it had been more appetizing when it was first packaged than it appeared now. 

He reached out impatiently and pushed the whole lot into the half-opened top drawer, along with the two bottles of pills he was bound and determined he didn't need and was NOT going to take.

Now, the stack of books on the coffee table, maybe twelve or thirteen or so in total, that was a different story. The doctor had warned him that reading might make the headache worse, the nausea as well, but that he'd be the best judge of that. "Just don't try and overdo it, that's all I ask," the doctor had said. 

The books had been dropped off by various individuals, at least three, maybe four, but the majority had been added by Teamleaders Ainsley and Davis when they'd stopped by. 

Oh, not from them, personally - they'd each brought a bottle, thinking that worth a hell of a lot more. No, they were merely the messengers. 

As Davis explained, the string market bag contained ten books "on loan from the blokes up at the Mansion; you know, Garrison's guys. Ran into Actor at HQ and he handed them over; said it took some doing picking out the right stuff but that he thinks you may like these. No hurry; no one will be looking for them til after the war is over anyway. Of course, the message from Casino was a little different. Says for you not to overdo it; that all that reading just can't be good for you."

Of course, it being Micah Davis, that small delivery had been well peppered with profanity and obscenities, some indecipherable to anyone not familiar with the Australian mode of cursing. Richards would have found it amusing if Davis had refrained from using his 'outside' voice; as it was, it made his head ache even worse.

After they left, Richards thought about taking a run through the books, picking out something likely, but sudden fatigue convinced him a nap would be a better idea.

When he awoke, somewhat refreshed, he reached over and picked up one from the stack. 

"Odd title, certainly. 'Astral Projection and Its Uses - Esoteric, Relevatory, and Amative'." 

He sat that one on the cushion beside him and reached for another. "A novel, perhaps? 'The Balustrade'. Oh, well."

He added that to the other one and sought a third. He quickly rejected 'A Healthy Mind in a Healthy Body.' At the moment he didn't have either, and reading about it wouldn't help matters any. AND, it didn't sound all that entertaining anyway. That one was slid to the far end of the table.

Finally he picked one at random. "Hmmm. 'The Willing and Dutiful Soldier'. Perhaps worth a try," not bothering even to open it, just setting it on the small stack he had started.

A slow trip to the kitchenette to fix a slice of toast, taking a glance into the rather bare pantry, the even emptier fridge, and he shrugged, and made his way back to the nest he'd made for himself on the couch. While the toast had tasted a bit odd, he virtuously took a few bites, remembering he'd promised the doctor to "eat, for heaven's sakes, man!" 

There was probably some justice in that implied criticism. He'd made the effort and changed out of pajamas earlier, now dressed in trousers that had fit him before those last two missions, but were now decidedly loose, along with a shirt that was almost as ill-fitting. Well, he was on sick-leave, not going about in the streets, so comfort was more important than appearance, surely.

Nibbling the toast, dry since there was nothing to make it less so, he picked up 'The Balustrade'. He was only three chapters in when the book turned from a rather formula-driven pastoral story of a lazy summer holiday at a country manor to something quite different. He flushed with rank embarrassment at the scene with the eight nude male university students stretched out on their backs on the parlor floor, and the giggling house maids assessing the sight, pulling up their skirts and making their selections based on - realizing to his horror just what the title represented. 

Quickly tossing the book back onto the coffee table he snorted. "'The Balustrade' indeed! What an image!"

His head ached, the toast hadn't improved the queaziness in his stomach, and he'd lost his taste for reading for the moment. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of yet another well-wisher. Marcus Bolton, bearing a package of evil smelling cigars, hadn't stayed long, and Kevin started to get settled back on the couch, but taking a look at the clock, realized surely it was getting too late for any more visitors. Maybe he could risk seeking out his own bed. 

Picking up 'Astral Projection' etc, figuring it might be rather strange, but certainly had to be less disturbing than that novel, and he wasn't up for dealing with 'The Willing and Dutiful Soldier' quite yet. The former sounded dry enough, hopefully just the thing to put him into a drowse. Retrieving one of the tins of hard candies, he headed slowly for the bedroom, taking time to place those cigars next to Ainsley's villainous spirits - it seemed like a match made in - well, not heaven, but somewhere more appropriately warm.

Well, the book was decidedly strange, though the taste of those candies, at least the two he'd tackled, had been even stranger. Neither were particularly to his taste.

The desire for sleep didn't come easily, so he slowly read on, but finally, two hours later, he slid down and turned out the light. 

The light came on again at 2 AM, when he awoke with a start, breathing heavily, looking around the room as if expecting to see once again the scene he'd been an unwilling observer to in his sleep. 

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, he'd gotten up, ran a cold wet cloth over his face and neck, and headed back to bed. He was severely tempted to broach one of those bottles of spirits, though not quite desperate enough to open the prescriptions the doctor had given him. Firming his lips, he decided to forego either.

Laying back against the pillows, he resolved that 'Astral Projection' would be put on the discard stack first thing in the morning. Well, at least now he knew what they meant by the 'Amative' in the title! If they'd only put that chapter sub-title on the cover, or even at the beginning of the chapter instead of in the final note, he'd have known to avoid it entirely. {"It would have been helpful, you know. Instead of that small print indicating 'Alternate Chapter Title as used in the Swiss edition - Tantric Sex and Its Close Affinity With Astral Projection', indeed!!"}

That picture would take some time and effort erasing from his mind -

\- A darkened room (though nowhere dark enough for Richards' taste!) - Goniff, sitting facing Meghada, both totally nude, arms loosely clasped around each other's shoulders. It had taken the officer a few blinks to realize exactly how they were poised, her legs wrapped around his waist, his knees bent, ankles crossed at her back. Gentle smiles and murmurs and soft kisses, even a few low chuckles (which, to Richards' mind, was totally inappropriate!). 

As he watched, appalled, Meghada, then the Cockney had turned their eyes from each other, turned, it would seem, to see and recognize the man observing them. They'd seemed puzzled, perhaps, at his presence, but basically unconcerned at being overlooked, quickly moving their attention back to each other.

{"Typical! Of course, neither of them has enough sense of propriety as to be embarrassed by me seeing them like that!"} he fumed to himself, before he realized just how ludicrous that thought was. {"Oh for heaven's sake! And why would THEY be embarrassed by a dream I'M having??!"}

Deciding sleep was probably not immediately forthcoming, he eased himself up and made his way back to the living room and those bottles. A short argument with himself, which he lost (or won, depending on your outlook), had him pouring himself a shot glass from one of the two that were NOT Ainsley's contribution. He might be taking a chance, but he wasn't willing to take THAT much of a gamble!

Sipping the drink cautiously, he reached for that book again, though this time making sure to skip far ahead from that far-too-evocative chapter. Finishing a rather obscurely-titled portion, 'Truth-Seeking Through Astral Projection', he shook his head, wondering at the pure nonsense that was being published these days. Setting the book and his glass aside, seeing that it was now 3:30, he decided to try again for a few hours of sleep.

He had never been so glad for the morning to come, he thought to himself, as he grimly made his way to the shower. For him to be yearning for another glass of spirits at 6 AM was unheard of, but really, he felt he was justified. That second 'vision', 'dream' or whatever the holy hell it had been - well, if he'd thought the first had been most disturbing, he obviously been wrong. The second had totally displaced it in the lead of that category.

-That same room, or so it would appear. He'd groaned to himself, thinking of reliving that voyeristic episode, tried to wake himself up, but was unsuccessful. Resigning himself, reluctantly, to going through that whole embarrassing scene once again, he turned his eyes to the shadowed figures in the middle of that huge bed. Letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, he felt his mouth go dry. 

Goniff, yes, still not having located his clothes, it would appear, seated in the same position. But the figure seated facing him? Not Meghada. No, the shape, the height was all wrong. He would have turned away if he could, but he seemed frozen in place as the two exchanged those same gentle smiles and soft kisses, soft caresses. When, as before, the two turned their heads toward him, as if questioning his presence, he felt the sweat break out on his forehead. He knew that, while one of those pair of puzzled eyes would be a hazy blue, the other would be a clear green, the hair a golden blond, not red. Once again, apparently shrugging off the intrusion, they returned their attention to each other, and somehow, in the midst of all that followed, Richards decided perhaps tomorrow he would broach Ainsley's bottle of rotgut after all. Regular spirits just wouldn't answer, not after that! Though how he was to ever speak sensibly to Craig Garrison again, he just didn't have a clue!

After his morning ablutions, 'Astral Projection' joined 'The Ballustrade' UNDER the coffee table, face down. He even put a cast iron doorstop in the shape of a Scottish terrior on top, as if to keep the contents from escaping and attacking him unawares.

He was browsing through the rest of the books when another knock came. He decided to ignore it; it was only 6:45 in the morning. Surely it was too early for visitors. When he heard the latch click open, he instinctively reached for his revolver, kept between the cushions on the couch, only to sigh heavily and with deep resignation.

"Good morning, Ciena. Good morning, Coura. Isn't it a bit early for a social call? And wasn't that door locked?" 

Not that such things had ever stopped either of the two younger O'Donnell girls before, neither them or the other two of the exasperating females they called sisters.

Well, it seemed they weren't in all that sociable a mood; in fact, were rather indignant that, first, he'd managed to get himself all bunged up. AND that he hadn't bothered to let anyone in the family know. Then, when they'd questioned the wisdom of him being here all alone, receiving his rather sheepish explanation, it appeared they weren't all that favorably impressed that he'd apparently misled the doctor about the level of care he would receive at home either.

"Sometimes, Kevin, I don't know what we are going to do with you," Ciena, the older sister (if you could call nineteen 'older'), fumed. "Where WERE you hiding when the common sense was handed out??!"

He didn't bother responding, rather fascinated by her darting around the room, tidying away the mess he'd managed to make here and there. She'd never struck him as the domestic type, but there was a certain housewifey competence about her sure touch.

"Well, for one thing, sister, we are going to have to feed him," Coura said dryly from the kitchen. "A quarter loaf of bread starting to turn green around the edges, one pint of milk that should NOT be opened, I assure you, and I have no IDEA what is in that covered container, and I have no desire to know either. Nothing edible is that color! Well, at least there's some decent coffee, and enough tea for at least one pot. I'll get those going, then I'll head round to the shops."

Funny, he would have thought Coura, at perhaps fourteen, even less domestic than Ciena, but that pot of coffee and another of tea had appeared in record time. He watched as she absently sipped at her cup while quickly putting together a list.

"And what do you do about laundry, Kevin? Or do I look for another couple pairs of pajamas while I'm out, and some socks as well?" 

He pokered up with embarrassment. "I take things to the place on the corner. And no, you do NOT need to go shopping for those particular items. I assure you I have plenty . . ." 

He paused, flushed, remembering that he had been pretty hard on his 'plentiful' supply of both, and the laundry basket was pretty well full while his dresser drawer was pretty well empty. Well, two long back-to-back field assignments, 18 hour days at the office in between, and laundry (and grocery shopping) had been at the tail end of his list of things to accomplish. Obviously Coura had already discovered that fact. Although he hadn't given her leave to rummage around, Coura never HAD been a respector of persons, especially one Kevin Richards, whom she'd long ago decided needed a keeper.

"Ah. Well. We'll see what I can come up with. Perhaps something in a nice rose pink? Or a nice plaid, perhaps Clan Stuart or Clan MacLeod, something nice and cheery? Never mind choosing, Kevin; I'll surprise you," Coura had smiled. 

He knew better than to trust that smile; he just had too much experience with the girl.

"Now, look, you two. I appreciate the tea, and the tidying, but I am quite able to take care of myself," he protested, all to no avail. 

Somehow, and he wasn't quite sure how, he found himself tucked up on the couch, pillows heaped behind him, fresh light blanket tucked around, watching Coura dash out the door, list in her pocket, duffle of laundry over her shoulder, and watching Ciena browse through the books on the table.

"Would you like something to read? That is, if you're allowed?" she asked. "It seems you have quite an assortment to chose from."

Keeping his eyes away from the two books on the floor, hoping she would overlook those totally, he settled for 'The Willing and Dutiful Soldier'. This time it took a good five chapters before things started to go south. No, it was impossible to sit here, Ciena earnestly doing this and that, while reading THAT. 

Well, he had wondered when the main character, the soldier, would make an appearance - so far there had been a barrister, one nobleman, and a royal prince, but no soldier. He was quite sure his jaw dropped open most unattractively when he realized that 'the soldier' was what the royal prince called his personal equipment, though he snickered at a stray thought. {"Well, he could hardly call it 'The Little Prince', not with THAT description! Thank goodness Ciena didn't offer to read to me!"} as he hurriedly took advantage of her foray into the bedroom to stuff the volume behind the sofa cushions. 

A quick leaning forward allowed him to grab the top book off the remaining stack, 'Hannibal's Expedition Through The Alps'. 

{"With my luck, according to the author, the troops will stage an orgy and frighten the elephants into a stampede, thus accounting for his losses before he reached his destination!"}

However, much to his relief, this author seemed quite determined to stick to the commonly accepted facts about that expedition, with no unexpected forays into untoward erotic behavior that might alarm the livestock. It might not be overly interesting, but at least he didn't have to be concerned about Ciena reading over his shoulder.

Somehow he napped, which he hadn't expected to happen with someone else being in the flat. By the time he awoke, it was to the smell of something rather appetizing, and the quiet voices of his self-appointed keepers cum nursemaids.

A lunch served on a tray, soup that had NOT come from a tin, and toasted cheese and mixed pickle, followed by a jam tart, made him much happier about the invasion, and discovering that while Coura had been serious about supplementing his nightware, she had refrained from anything likely to make him avoid his mirror. Actually, the medium blue with a darker blue piping was quite nice, and he hadn't been looking forward to putting the same ones he'd worn for the past two nights. 

A game of cards, followed by them catching him up on the news from home, left him ready to doze again, only to wake to new appetizing smells coming from the kitchen. This time the meal was served atop his coffee table, the books having been moved to one side to leave room for the three place settings and assorted odds and ends. He'd frowned at his plate, the homity pie, crisp crust, thick potato and veg filling oozing with cheese and small pieces of bacon or maybe ham, resplendent there, and on the low table, what appeared to be a tart of some kind waiting to be cut into. 

"Somehow I never saw either of you as cooks, you know," he admitted.

Ciena and Coura exchanged a very dry look, and Ciena told him, "somehow I don't think you ever SAW us at all, Kevin, at least not in recent years. Still don't, in fact," that odd comment leaving him even more confused than before. "And how you think we, any of us, could grow up in our household without knowing our way around a kitchen, I can't imagine. Kitchen, stables, sewing room, kennels, stillroom, fields, all of us, the brothers as well; we all got a well-rounded education."

He'd thought to protest either of them staying, but somehow it seemed as if it would be a wasted effort, and offering his own bed seemed just as 'off', especially with no fresh sheets to replace the ones already on. Laying against the pillows, hearing their soft voices as they decided which would spend the night on the couch and which would prevail on Marchant's to give them space for the night before doing errands in the morning, he'd tried to feel uncomfortable, but somehow it all just felt cozy. He'd heard the door open and close, but couldn't tell who'd pulled night duty.

He'd tossed and turned for awhile, then flipped the light back on in exasperation. 

"Can't sleep? I could read to you," Coura offered from the doorway. "I found another three books, ones we didn't look through earlier. Under the coffee table, and behind the cushions, which seems a very odd place for books, I must say." 

Her eyes were as innocent as a spring morning, and if it hadn't been for that slight trembling of her lips, he might have believed she hadn't already browsed through those offending volumes.

"No, thank you," he replied rather crisply. "Perhaps you might bring me that one on, what was it called, something about a healthy mind in a healthy body?"

That smirk just had to come through; it was obviously just too painful to keep it bottled up. She obviously was going to ignore that disheartening and ever so boring suggestion.

"Should I ask who decided to bring you those three? And, I hate to tell you, but at least three of the others are in a similar vein. One is actually far more, well, perhaps far LESS likely to be something you'd pick for casual reading." She fanned her face with her open hand, mockingly.

He groaned, "I have no idea. Wait, yes, perhaps I do. There were several delivered to me, compliments of Craig Garrison. With a message, from Casino, I believe I was told. Something about "all that reading probably not being good for me."

Coura broke out in a delighted laugh. "Yes, that sounds like Casino. And I bet Craig picked out some very solid books, and Actor picked out several quite appropriate and high-minded books, and I can just see the others searching through the library to substitute some other quite IN-appropriate ones! Though, the one on astral projection DOES sound interesting. Did I ever tell you about the time my sisters and brothers and I experimented with something of that nature?"

It was an hour later when she'd said good night, leaving him with an amused smile on his face and with a feeling that he actually might HAVE a good night for a change. Thinking of her amusing recounting of the O'Donnell siblings' excursion into astral projection, he spared a quick thought for his OWN experiences, and was only grateful that none of Coura's stories had been anything similar. There were some things he just was not equipped to handle.

Ciena returned in the morning, with brother Michael in tow. Michael wasn't overly impressed by the tale of Kevin having checked himself out of medical, and insisted on giving him a thorough exam. Tucking his stethoscope back in his satchel, he'd sighed. 

"Well, you're doing pretty much as you should be for the time elapsed. But the next time you pull something this foolish, I warn you, I'm going to tell the parents, and you really don't want mother down here, do you?"

Kevin didn't bother answering; the look of sheer horror on his face was answer enough. Felane was the tree, the sisters the apples, and the old saying certainly was true there.

Of course, Kevin was a little uncomfortable with Michael knowing Coura had stayed the night, and that Ciena seemed to be settling in now herself. Somehow, he was the ONLY one uncomfortable, as Michael proceeded to give both of his younger sisters instructions, recommendations, even putting up with the slight roll of Coura's eyes at the doing.

"Yes, yes, I know you know all of this quite well, but just as a reminder. Have to justify all that medical training I spent so much time getting SOME way, you know," Michael had said goodnaturedly.

Michael left, after partaking of the poached eggs and toast the kitchen had turned out, and Kevin settled down to broach yet another book, this one obviously one of Garrison's offerings. By the time he was three chapters in, he understood more clearly Meghada's comments, after one mission, of "sand, fleas, crocodiles, and don't get me started on the bedamned snakes!". He fell asleep musing over the exingencies faced by that gallant group of explorers, though totally questioning their sanity at undertaking such a journey. {"I'll start something different, next,"} he promised himself. Just the reading of it made him itch.

A lunch of sandwiches made from some concoction he'd never even thought of - potted meat scrambled together with eggs - with some sort of red beans and chopped celery in a vinagrette dressing of some sort to the side proved surprisingly appetizing. In his mind he dismantled the ingredients, and realized that the picture there was at total contrast to how it all tasted and how well it settled in his stomach. 

He was pretty sure those trousers were going to fit much better by the time the sisters left, and he was finding he was a little regretful at the thought of that time coming. Considering how much they seemed to enjoy aggravating him, that came as somewhat of a surprise, and he resolved not to tell them anything of the sort. They'd never let him live it down! Anyway, it was probably just part of his reaction to that concussion.

The afternoon whizzed by with Ciena picking up one of the books on Celtic legends, and proceeded to tell him, not read him, a few of the stories. 

"Oh, not that the book is necessarily wrong, mind you, at least about some of it, some parts. It's just that they make it seem so staid and dull, and it's anything but that!" Coura explained, when he'd protested, saying he could read quite well, thank you.

He had to agree; the stories ranged from fierce to romantic, tragic to bloody, hilarious to horrific, with a couple positively pastoral, and not one of the stories was dull, at least not the way Ciena, then Coura, told them. 

When he'd questioned the mention of a 'shadow dance', Ciena had urged Coura to give a demonstration, and she had. He'd had his heart in his throat during the entire performance as she whirled and leaped and swirled and plunged, with his military saber in one hand, his grandfather's short sword in the other. Her moving body was apparently 'battling' with the shadow on the wall, and if he let his mind just accept that, he could follow it blow for blow, advance, deflect, strike. He would have clapped when she came to an abrupt halt, seemingly having just plunged that short sword into the heart of her opponent, but his own heart was pounding too hard for him to exert himself to that extent.

A supper of thick rolls, toasted and stuffed with vegetables, cheese melted throughout, along with a hearty soup that he'd smelled simmering all afternoon, left them in a lazy mood, and the evening finished with a game of cards and they settled in for the night. Somehow Kevin never even considered questioning the presence of both sisters in his living room anymore, and he went to sleep to the murmuring of their soft voices.

A quiet morning followed, with Ciena having to head to HQ for a meeting, and Coura headed back out to the shops and to Marchants to pick up a change of spare clothing they kept there for emergencies. 

Kevin read a little more, picked up and browsed through a book of Oriental art, fascinated despite himself. If he'd thought those descriptions in 'The Willing and Dutiful Soldier' were extravagant, it seems they had nothing on the portrayals in some of these paintings! He'd quickly slid the book under the couch when he heard the door start to open, but that quick chuckle from Ciena made him think he might not have been quite quick enough.

"I have to head out in the morning, Kevin. Coura will stay, but you'd best think of whatever I could do for you in the meantime."

He narrowed his eyes, "contract work?" only to get her rueful nod. 

"I'd not leave if I could help it, or if Coura wasn't here, but the team really needs someone with my skills."

Yes, well, they all did what they needed to in his war, though something tightened inside every time he knew she or Meghada, or even worse, Coura, were out there, alone or not.

"There's not much to be done, and besides, I'm due to check in with the med unit doctor in the morning. I'm hopeful I'll be given clearance to head back to work. I imagine he'll try and keep me on a desk for another week or two, til the ankle's less likely to give way under pressure, but I should be fine for anything less strenuous."

There was a surreal air about the afternoon and evening, a quality Kevin couldn't put his finger on. There was the reality, but it was almost as if there was more than one reality all weaving together. Quiet talk, the sharing of simple meals, easy teasing and quick rejoinders, the sisters telling tales or singing, him telling a few stories from his past that he'd never shared before - it would be a time they would each remember with great fondness.

When he awoke, Ciena was gone, and he had to hurry to make his appointment. Coura had seen him to the med unit, but stayed out of sight til he was finished and back out again.

"So?"

"So, I'm back on desk duty as of right now," he smiled ruefully. "I had intended to take you to lunch, but . . ."

"Never you mind. I'll let you buy me and Ciena dinner at this little pub I know once she's back and we have some time. I'll get our things from the flat, and tidy up."

She'd turned to go, then stopped, turned and frowned fiercely at him. 

"And you take CARE of yourself, do you hear me??! I'm going to be most annoyed with you otherwise!" 

Then she was gone, and the world seemed just a little duller. Just as his flat seemed eerily empty when he returned in the late evening. Though the note on the table made him smile and restored some of the warmth he was already missing. 

It crisply informed him that, "dinner is in the fridge, since I doubt you remembered to eat anything. It's egg and leek pie, so you don't even have to warm it if you'd rather not, and there are scones in the tin on the counter. There are other things in the pantry for the next few days, including some individual fruit pies (they stay fresher that way). EAT, Kevin!!! AND sleep! Sweet dreams attend thee, and may the Sweet Mother keep watch over you. And remember to come home safely. Do NOT make us come looking for you!!!" C/C.  
PS>. Pralined walnuts and nut brittle in paper sacks inside your top nightstand drawer, along with a copy of 'Harvey', a book we think you just might enjoy. We assure you, there's nothing in there to put you to the blush. Your laundry should be ready for you to pick up from that place on the corner on Thursday.  
PPS>. Did we mention that you are NOT to get yourself bunged up again??!  
PPPS>. Don't forget to return those books to Craig - eventually!

He smiled again, folded the note and tucked it into the card file on his desk. Then, on second thought, he retrieved it, unfolded it and slid the corner under the rim of his dresser mirror, where he could see and read it more easily. Settling down with the book they'd left on his nightstand, he opened the drawer and pulled out two paper sacks. {"Yes, pralined walnuts in one, a crunchy nut brittle in the other,"} shaking his head at them remembering those were his favorites, at making the effort to search them out especially.

Oddly, he thought to the conversation he'd had with the doctor when he'd been given his release to return to work. 

"Well, obviously you followed orders, Major. I have to admit I'm a bit surprised. No offense, but I have the feeling you weren't exactly telling the truth about having someone at home to take care of you, but it seems you've been in very good hands. Even put on a couple of pounds, it seems. Family?"

He'd smiled then, too, realizing only later that he'd spoken the entire truth when he'd told the man, "yes, I had the very best of care. And, as you say, family. Well, family and friends together, actually."

Epilogue:

He was headed to Brandonshire to discuss the matter of Christine Allenthorpe, the budding writer who had decided to go jaunting about where she had no business being, and thus getting into more trouble than she could handle. So, he was going to lay the matter before the extremely devious occupants of the Mansion and the Cottage. 

Perhaps, if they were willing to get involved, this could all get resolved without putting all of society into an outraged uproar. After all Christine, no matter her literary aspirations, was the daughter of someone very high in the social scale and her current location, if it leaked out, would be scandalous to even the most open-minded of those in her family's circle.

Personally, he was of half a mind to sit back and let them all roar at the ceiling and the walls, himself thinking Christine needed a good spanking and the opportunity to learn a good lesson, but Julie was adamant that her old friend needed rescuing. 

"Then, perhaps one of your stern lectures, big brother, but first things first. First we drag her out of the lions' den, then go all judgemental on her," she'd said, and he'd given his sister a glare, but finally gave in.

He glanced at the floorboards beside him. Yes, he'd remembered to put in that marketbag full of books to return to Garrison. Richards still had trouble believing the ones Garrison had sent to ease him through his recovery. 

Oh, the one about Hannibal's expedition, yes, that had been interesting in a way - overcoming logistical challenges, thinking outside the box and all that. Though considering how many of the elephants had been lost to the terrain and the weather and all, he wasn't sure 'overcoming' was the right word. He remarked to himself, "I suppose there are always those assets considered expendable," flushing a little thinking how he'd once considered the men he was headed to see as exactly that.

And, he had to admit, the book on Celtic mythology had been absorbing, more of it seeming oddly familiar than it should have. Perhaps it was the O'Donnell influence.

He'd gotten halfway through a book of Persian poetry before realizing that, no, he was not misinterpreting the intent OR the pronouns, and sat it aside in a rush. The volume of Blake was more familiar and not nearly so dangerous, and he contented himself with that for one long evening. The book of Oriental and Middle Eastern art had seemed colorful enough, but the subject matter involved was rather daunting, and the attributes of the participants so enhanced as to even distract from the subject matter. He'd glanced through it a few times after the sisters had left, making a game of trying to place just whose limbs each were attached to, which wasn't always so easy, seeing how entertwined some of them were.

Still, with most of his sick leave being interrupted by Ciena and Coura seemingly taking turns pestering him, when they weren't doing so in unison, he hadn't had nearly the time he'd thought to indulge in reading. It seemed they had a never-ending stream of stories, an almost as voluminous measure of songs, and in between those and their teasing and cosseting, not to mention their seeming intention to put at least half a stone onto his weight, he wasn't bored or discontented in the least. Not until after they left, that is. Now, well . . .

"Here you are, Garrison. And I thank you and Actor for the loan. Most - most kind of you, I'm sure," he'd offered with a polite smile, that very brief hesitation almost unnoticeable. 

Garrison took the books, ran through them quickly and gave a quick frown. Thinking perhaps Richards had picked up the wrong stack, he flipped open the covers to see that, yes, the same familiar bookplate, the one in all the books at the Mansion, was in each. Going to his desk he pulled out a list, compared them, and gave Richards a puzzled look. 

"Three of these are on the list I made out, but the others . . . "

Noting Richards' unintended flush, Garrison groaned, "should I ask, Major?" only to get a hasty "NO! You should not! And unless your tastes are quite different than I'd imagine, I'd not sample them either, Garrison. Although you might enjoy the Blake; I assume that was Actor's contribution."

Taking a fast perusal of the pages of several of those he'd not seen before, Garrison had to agree.

Giving the books, now laid out on the table, then the amused Richards, a jaundiced eye, Garrison bellowed up the stairs.

"My office! Now! On the double!!"

And four men, who, having seen Richards arrive, had been waiting for exactly that, appeared in the doorway. 

Well, back when Garrison had mentioned sending books to Richards to get him through his invalid period, they'd each taken a look at that stack Garrison had pulled out to send and shook their heads in wry amusement. They'd shared their thoughts, all boiling down to something on the order of "not bad enough he's laid up; the Lieutenant's trying to bore him to death!"

It was interesting, however, to see the expressions change on the four faces as they got a look at the ten books laid out on the table now, covers easily visible. Well, on two of the faces anyway. Chief was being his usual detached, watchful self, if with a slight twinkle in his dark eyes, but true, honest bewilderment was evident on those two, and Garrison took note of that. Goniff, on the other hand . . .

Actor had glanced over them, knowing Richards must have been quite pleased with his selections, mostly fine literature, though he'd left three from Garrison's selections that Actor thought might have SOME appeal. He blinked to realize that only one of his selections was laid out on that desk, the volume of William Blake. Recognizing a few of the other titles from his younger days, his eyes widened in shock. 

Casino had been pretty proud of himself, remembering the major had talked once about the neighborhood Hunt Club in the area where he'd spent some of his early years, and although he didn't see the appeal, he'd shrugged and substituted several books about hunting, in general, and game keeping, and breeding hunting dogs to include; he didn't see that they would be interesting, but for a stuffy British officer, it might just fit the bill. He'd thought to include something nicely racy, maybe even donate a couple, three of items from his own library, but he figured giving the major a heart attack would probably just get Garrison pissed at him. Now he frowned, spotting only one of his selections laying there.

Chief had just taken a fast look, face calm, waiting. He had stood back from the earlier nonsense, though watching in deep, if undisclosed amusement, at all the book swapping going on. Oh, he'd kept track. There had been those ten that the Warden had worked so laborously on selecting. Chief had taken notice of each title, thinking he might just try one of them sometime if Garrison thought so highly of them. 

Then, he'd watched Actor go through the stack Garrison had prepared, shaking his aristocratic head in quiet amusement, then remove several, adding just as carefully selected replacements. Chief had followed along behind, noting which ones had disappeared, which new ones now in their place.

Casino had been interesting, taking time to really search the library til he got to a section containing stuff Chief had certainly never seen Casino go anywhere near before. Another set of substitutions, these seeming quite unlike anything Chief would have thought their safecracker would have come up with. Actually, they were more thoughtful selections than he would have expected, indicative of the man actually trying to pick something he thought Richards might like; he wasn't too sure how successful the attempt would be, but it was interesting that Casino had actually tried.

He'd almost laughed when he saw Casino start to add a small handful of magazines to the bottom of the pile, then hesitate, and reluctantly pull them away again. 

{"Yeah, good move, Pappy. The Warden''ll spot those right off, and you'll get bawled out, probably a half dozen times. And if he doesn't, he will once he hears the major's reaction."}

The most interesting entry into the effort to cheer up Major Richards came from Goniff. Their pickpocket had bounded over to the newly-altered stack after Casino left, casually flicked through the books and snorted with disdain. Then those blue eyes had turned distant, then wickedly crafty, and all of the ones Casino had switched out had been pulled and sat on one of the low shelfs. 

Finally Chief couldn't resist. 

"So, what are YOU adding in?"

Goniff turned, not in the least startled, which meant he'd been fully aware of Chief's presence. That wide grin was very telling.

"Just seems the man's going to be laid up on 'is back for a bit, Chiefy; needs distraction, 'e does, not to be bored to death on top of being bunged up. Now, expect these three are from the Lieutenant, and THIS one, the Blake, that 'as to be from Actor. Blake aint too bad, kinda peaceful-like, makes you think on things a bit differently sometimes; we'll leave that one in, maybe. All this rubbish about fox 'unting and managing quail and all that, suppose that's w'at Casino figures the major might relish. THOSE gotta go back, though I suppose it's only fair to leave in one - maybe the one on quail. Can't imagine the major diving into that one anyhow."

"Yeah, that's what I figure," Chief replied. "What do YOU have in mind, or should I ask?" he asked warily.

"Well, seems I've seen a few shelves, over behind this little sliding door," Goniff bouncing over to touch a rosette that Chief had never paid any attention to, since it looked like the other three hundred or so rosettes littered around the room, "seems like these might prove a little more 'distracting', so to speak."

Chief walked over to see the books revealed by that panel sliding back. They looked much like the other books in the room, fancy bindings, titles picked out in gold. 

"These that much different?" he asked curiously.

He got a wiggling eyebrow and sly grin in response. "Just say Casino's library aint got anything on THESE, cept not many with pictures. I think, if we're careful like, we can pick out some the Major just might find interesting. Might even open w'ole new 'orizons for the man, you know?"

One by one others were added, that low snicker coming more and more frequently.

Somehow Chief wasn't all that sure the major was looking for new horizons, at least not in the direction Goniff was intending to send the unsuspecting man, but he had to admit it was rather enlightening to see those talented fingers skim over the various titles, unerringly picking one after the other. {"And he's not just picking them at random, not with that grin on his face. Don't know when Actor's gonna pick up on just how much Goniff really knows. Man's got as many secrets as HE does, maybe more."}

Goniff had frowned, though, put one, then two books back. "Think maybe I'll add in those two along 'Gaida's line; she said they were better than most, and 'e might just learn something to 'elp keep 'im from rubbing them the wrong way," and after closing the panel, walked over to another section and picked out two, handing them back to Chief to add to the stack.

"'Celtic Tales and Legends', 'Matres, Matronae, Dominae - The Beginning'" he read, raising a questioning brow. 

Goniff was quick to reassure him, "oh, that last, it aint just limited to that, you know. Covers the Morrigan, Coinchend and Rosmerta and lots others. Mostly females, acourse; well, they would be now, wouldn't they," had been the breezy response, to which Chief just snorted in amusement. 

"Yeah, I guess so," not really knowing what the hell Goniff was talking about, but letting it go for now, since he was busy adding those two books to the stack. Running his fingers over the titles, he asked, "and you're sure the major's going to like these?"

Goniff squinched up his nose and admitted, "well, don't know as I'd say LIKE, so much as find them 'interesting', so to speak. Least wise, 'e won't be bored."

Now, Goniff's face was the only one that showed anything besides confusion or placid knowing. HIS face was beaming, obviously awaiting the sincere thanks he seemingly felt he was due for his efforts.

Garrison had looked from one to another of his men. Yes, the Blake had to be Actor, though where the hell that book on quail came from he didn't know. He figured Chief hadn't entered in to the production, though from that look of deep amusement almost, but not totally, hidden in those calm dark eyes, he obviously KNEW about it. That left -

"Goniff!!!"

If anything, those blue eyes got even wider, that smile more hopeful. 

"Yes, Warden? Did the major enjoy 'is time reading? Musta been 'ard on you, Major, being laid up on yer back, nothing to amuse you. Bet you 'ad yourself a right good time with them books, ei???"

Yes, simple, pure, innocent concern for Richards' contentment. Nothing else - no, of course not.

Richards wanted desperately to laugh, especially when he caught Garrison's exasperated expression.

Then his desire to laugh faded abruptly. Garrison was now standing directly in front of his pickpocket, hands on hips, looking sternly down at the shorter man. There was just something in the proximity, blue eyes twinkling into green ones, and Richards felt his breath catch in his throat.

{"I suppose Garrison carries most of his height in his legs; the difference in height isn't nearly so apparent when . . . "} and he choked at his thoughts, his memories.

At the sound, everyone looked at him, but Richards only saw the two pair of eyes, one pair blue, the other green, staring at him, saw that other scene superimposed over this one, and he remembered the title of that chaper - 'Truth-Seeking Through Astral Projection' - and felt the flush come over him, seemingly starting at his toes and rapidly working itself up to his forehead.

"Yes, well, I didn't have as much opportunity for reading as you might imagine, and really, I'm beginning to think Casino is right. All that reading just might not be as beneficial as you'd think," Richards admitted, before pulling out the bottle he'd brought as a sincere thanks for their well-meant efforts.

{"Truth-Seeking, my arse!"}


End file.
